


muzzle to muzzle

by willowcabins



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Community: hc_bingo, F/F, Fighting Kink, Post-Season/Series 03, Sparring, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, shaw being moody and ignoring root, taking care of somebody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1985202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowcabins/pseuds/willowcabins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root opens her mouth, and Shaw almost expects clouds of poisonous smoke to curl between elegant lips. There is no smoke; only words (perhaps they are worse).</p><p>“You found me,” Root comments pleasantly. She is combing her hair in front of her vanity, unperturbed by the gun Shaw has pointing at her back. She is still looking at the mirror, eyes flickering between her own reflection and Shaw’s, as if she is uncertain on whom to concentrate more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this was GOING to be one long fic, but then it became too long so i decided to divide it up. parts 2 and 3 will be there shortly bc they're 85% written.

Root opens her mouth, and Shaw almost expects clouds of poisonous smoke to curl between elegant lips. There is no smoke; only words (perhaps they are worse).

“You found me,” Root comments pleasantly. She is combing her hair in front of her vanity, unperturbed by the gun Shaw has pointing at her back. She is still looking at the mirror, eyes flickering between her own reflection and Shaw’s, as if she is uncertain on whom to concentrate more.

“You wanted to be found,” Shaw replies. Root smiles. Shaw knows she made it easy for her; she’s too smart, too good at what she does, not to be obvious.

“Did I?” she replies. She puts down her brush, and Shaw tightens the grip on her gun. Root notices, and Root smiles.

“Relax. I’m going to be late for work.” She opens her lipstick and painstakingly applies it to her lips. "How can I help you, Agent?" Shaw does not miss a beat.

"Who is Control?" She demands.

"The person in control.” She’s smiling. Shaw raises the gun from Root’s chest to her head.

"Are you playing games?" Shaw snarls in a dangerously low whisper. Root smiles at her reflection.

"It's all I am good at. Indulge me." She rubs her lips together, running a perfectly manicured index finger along her bottom lip and smiles.

"Give me a name," Shaw snaps. Root twists on the stool so she is no longer talking to reflections.

"Names are so frivolous, Shaw,” she explains with a condescending smile. “Go hunt for something else. I hear information is a good trade these days." Shaw bristles.

"A name is all the information I need."

"Are you sure you wouldn't just prefer a number?" Root asks. She gets up; high heels click on the floor. She straightens her elegant black skirt carefully and then takes the blazer from the side of the mirror. She wears clothes, ordinary clothes, but she wears them differently. A dress on Root's body is like a skirt made exclusively of knives. And she relishes it. She relishes cold metal and sharp cuts. Shaw’s grip on the gun tightens, minutely.

"I'll take nine digits if you have them for me," Shaw snaps, watching Root put on the blazer. Root smiles, flicking her hair over the collar and straightening her blouse carefully.

"I have seven," she offers in return.

"Good enough," Shaw snaps. Root picks up her phone and Shaw immediately tenses again.

“Relax,” Root soothes her with a smile. “I’m just checking the time. I need to leave for work soon.”

“No, you’re going to be late,” Shaw repeats. Root raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. “You’re going to be late because you’re going to give me some answers first,” Shaw explains, her voice almost monotonous.

“No, I’m going to be late for work,” Root starts, walking towards Shaw and standing at the muzzle of her gun, “because I’m going to tie you up.”

To this day, Shaw has no idea how Root knocked her out so fast.

(Root’s apartment has an unbeatable security system; it is triggered by a word from the admin, and it releases a tranquilizer from the tranquilizer gun stored under the beams. The accuracy of that gun is 98%.)

Shaw wakes up in a different city three days later, missing her wallet and her gun. Her neck aches and her legs are unbearably stiff, and she’s just a tiny bit more curious.

 

Root is like poison, and Shaw knows a thing or two about that.  
More than anything, Shaw knows all about the acute pain of a stab in the side as a man she once respected knocks her out in the middle of a crowded street in New York City.

To be fair; she still respects him.

Poison is excellent subterfuge.

(She still shoots Root in the shoulder later. Just to get her back for that.)

 

Shaw exhales, and sits down.

Root smiles; her white teeth glisten.

“Hello.” Warm words that slip like knives, unseen, between rib cages. Eyes that undress and words that graze and thoughts that slip and stab and bleed; a woman, or a switchblade? Shaw can't decide.

"Your hands aren't made for killing." They are sitting across a table. Root's legs are crossed, her hands are clasped, and her smile is demure.

"Humans have no purpose, Agent Shaw," she says, voice deceptively sweet. "My hands were not made for killing, or for braiding, or for reading.” She gestures around at the library around them dramatically. “My hands were made. That's it."

"You misunderstood," Shaw snaps. That’s not what she meant; that’s not it, at all. Root uncrosses her legs and leans forward. Shaw doesn’t move.

"I didn't,” she murmurs, smiling. “I chose to follow a different line of an ambiguous thought."

"Stop following it then," Shaw snaps. Root tilts her head and smiles.

"You're the one who implied it." Shaw sighs and sits back, face expressionless.

"You're the one who wanted to talk." Shaw gestures at her position in the library. “Here I am. Talk to me.” Root tilts her head and smiles.

“I wanted to see if you would come if I called.” Shaw wants to punch her. But she just clenches her fists and breaths out.

 

"You brought me breakfast?" She is cheerful and delighted and Shaw is annoyed. Annoyed that Reese is out chasing people; annoyed that Finch and Bear chasing another lead and annoyed that she has to babysit the prisoner in the library.

"Finch is out," she growls. Root gets up and smiles at Shaw. Shaw doesn’t react; she puts down the tray and makes to get out again.

"Wanna stay?" Root offers, tilting her head. Shaw shakes her head.

 "Not today."

"Tomorrow then," Root says, bowing her head and smiling. The smile reminds Shaw of a shark; inviting and dangerous.

"Whatever," Shaw leaves. She doesn’t have the patience for that today. Whatever ‘that’ is.

 

Shaw is standing on the mat, testing it for weight. She bounces and smiles; it will soften the blow of a hard landing. She smiles, almost predatorily at Root, and tilts her head.

Even Inmates need exercise, and Root can’t be trusted on runs. Reese made this suggestion, and now here they are.

Shaw lifts her arms up and stretches. Root is more careful. She slips off her shoes and stretches her arms quietly. Shaw tilts her head.

She reckons Root is fast. And….she narrows her eyes.

“She’ll be able to predict my moves if you listen to Her,” Shaw points out. Root tilts her head.

“What do you want me to do, take her out?” It’s a joke; Root would never sever her connection. “Anyway, are you worried you’ll lose?”

“Against you?” Shaw is all arrogant confidence. Root grins.

They start.

Shaw bounces, muscles bunched for an attack. She lashes out, fist making contact with Root before she means to follow it up with a powerful kick to Root’s left side. Root blocks the kick with an almost effortless parry before she aims and executes her own kick to Shaw’s hip. Shaw jumps back, bouncing on the balls of her feet again, surprised. Root lets Shaw circle her, watching her, hands up in front of her face protectively. Shaw steps forward again with two speedy punches aimed at Root’s face. Root ducks, delivers a powerful kick to Shaw’s thigh and rolls out from under her. Shaw moves in again, undeterred; Root side steps Shaw’s second punch and grabs a hold of Shaw’s arm, flipping her onto the mat. Shaw rolls up in one succinct movement; she is now standing on the other side, bouncing on her feet again.

“You’re fast,” Shaw gasps; to her own disbelief, she is panting.

“You’re strong,” Root agrees; although she doesn’t show it, her shoulder is smarting from Shaw’s well aimed punch.

Ascending three chords; Root steps left and avoids Shaw’s next attack. Shaw growls, and then attacks again, ducking down and slamming into Root’s stomach. Root falls, winded. Shaw sits on top of her, grinning;

“Omniscience can only ever get you so far,” she murmurs, and Root’s body hums at the soft way Shaw says ‘omniscient.’ Shaw stands up and offers Root a hand. Root smiles and grabs her wrist, allowing herself to be hauled up.

“Rematch?” Shaw offers, rolling her shoulders. Root grins.

“Always.”

She’s bouncing on the mat again, and Root watches her carefully. Descending tonal chords; Root blocks right and stops a well-aimed kick aiming for her core, but then suddenly Shaw’s knee is in her back and she has yanked both of Root’s hands behind her, forcing her into the floor. Root, face first in the mat, twists around so she can look at Shaw.

“You won again,” she points out, voice muffled by the mat.

“As long as I do unexpected things, She can’t save you,” Shaw explains. She loosens her grip on Root’s arm; instead of getting up Root rolls onto her back, still underneath Shaw. Shaw settles on her, thighs straddling Root’s midriff.

“She doesn’t _expect_ me to save me,” Root says, incredulous at Shaw’s mere suggestion. Shaw leans over Root and shakes her head.

“I won’t always be there to protect you,” she cautions. Root shakes her head, almost pityingly.

“Oh Shaw,” she breathes, “that’s not the point.”

She slithers out from under Shaw and bounces up. She re-ties her hair into a pony tail and tilts her head at Shaw. “Again?”

When Reese comes down to the dojo to tell Shaw they need her help with something, he comes down to the sight of Root’s knee in the small of Shaw’s neck while she twists Shaw’s arm. Resse raises an eyebrow.

“Am I missing something?” He asks.

“Nope,” Shaw says, her voice muffled by the mat.

“Agent Shaw was just teaching me a couple of moves.” Root steps off Shaw and smiles innocently at Reese. His eyes slide off her and back to Shaw, who has stood up now, sweat glistening on her forehead.

“Put your charge away; we need you.”

 

“I told you, Harold, we should have worked together.” Root blasts herself into a room, two guns held high and aiming them so well. Shaw ignores her relief and simply offers Root her hands, ignoring everything else.

“Cut me loose,” she commands.

Suddenly they are side by side, shooting guns at people Shaw used to respect. Sometimes, just sometimes, she wonders how she ended up here. A medical student turned marine turned rogue agent standing next to a sociopath who worships a machine and shoots two guns.

Most days, she doesn’t let those questions come to mind.

She just shoots.

(“go!”; its forceful and breathless and Shaw is thinking of the mission; she runs. Something inside her, something very quiet, clicks unhappily, and she feels unsettled, on edge.

She looks behind her at the car, but no footsteps follow

They drive off, and Shaw worries).

 

There was no need to worry, in the end.

 

Shaw flickers awake; there’s someone in her apartment. She jumps out of bed and whirls around, standing in her typical defensive fighter stance. Root is leaning against the wall, head tilted and smirk in place.

“What are you doing here?” Shaw demands, dropping her fists. Root grins.

“Testing your security,” she purrs, slowly walking towards Shaw.

“How is it?” Shaw asks sarcastically. Root’s grin widens, and she stands there, Cheshire cat smile and white teeth glinting in the low light cast by the street lights.

“Better than last time,” Root concedes. She’s standing in front of Shaw, looking down at her. She juts out her chin defiantly.

“I’m gathering you’re not here to taser me, this time.”

“No. This time I thought I’d just ask.”

“You need help?”

“Always.”

“Where?”

“New York.”

“Let me go get changed.”

 

They’re in a classified location in a parking garage; a man shoots and the shot is absorbed by Shaw’s body armour. She shoots back; blood blooms on his chest where he wasn’t wearing body armour. Shaw glances up at a camera, nodding, as if somewhere a collection of circuits and electricity will understand that gesture for thankfulness. She feels a bruise begin to bud beneath the vest, but she ignores it, and instead approaches him, reloading her gun.

“Who were you working with?” She asks, standing above this man. He looks up and grins and Shaw recognises the smile of fanatics when she sees it.

“You’ll never know,” he whispers. He bites down, and Shaw knows the tell-tale signs of cyanide poisoning. She growls, annoyed, and shoots him in the head anyway.

“Do you have all the information you need?” Shaw asks Root, clambering into the dead man’s van. Root hums happily and connects the man’s laptop to the internet with a couple of quick clicks.

“She will have access to all his records this way.”

“So she’ll tell us who he was working for?”

“Oh no. We have to find that out for ourselves. But now She knows.”

“She can’t just tell us?” Root closes the laptop and shakes her head condescendingly at Shaw. “That would be cheating,” she chastises.

They are in a room later, a room that is in neither of their apartments and furnished with enough computers to satisfy Root. She sets up a program, and then sets a timer. “We have forty three minutes until this program is complete, so why don’t you let me check that bullet wound.”

“My vest took a bullet. I’m fine,” Shaw brushes off, but before she knows it, Root has opened her vest carefully. She is leaning against Shaw, breath careful and regulated. Shaw exhales, slowly, willing her body to comply. But despite the fact that Shaw knows, rationally, that Root’s probes up her torso are to check for broken ribs and bruises, her skin can’t help but tingle. Her back arches and she hisses as Root presses on her bruise. Root lifts a tank top; Shaw’s skin is purpling under her hands. Her palm rests on the bruise; it’s warm, and oddly pleasant.

“Sorry,” Root whispers, and her apology feels oddly out-of-place.

Shaw doesn’t know whether it’s her glittering flesh, or Root’s reverence of it, or simply the jumpy adrenaline and excitement of a fight well executed. Either way, she leans up, and kisses Root. Her whole body has to angle up, but Root’s left hand slips from Shaw’s bruise to her hips, pushing her back against the wall. Root’s other hand tilts Shaw’s head upward, Root kiss her harder. Shaw whines inside Root’s mouth, and Root shivers, stepping into Shaw’s space. The hand at the back Shaw’s neck tilts her upwards, and Root licks deeper into her mouth; for a second, Shaw nearly feels weak in the knees.

It becomes messy quickly; Root bites down on Shaw’s lip and Shaw groans, grinding her hips against Root’s thigh even as Root tries to restrain her. Shaw emitted a sound somewhere between a growl and groan, and suddenly Root crams her hands down Shaw’s pants, by passing the zipper. A palm administers pressure and finger tease against underwear. Shaw groans and arches against Root’s hand hungrily, needing friction to ease the tension in her spine. Initially, Root does not give; Shaw’s spine straightens and she clenches her eyes hot, slamming her head against the wall. There is a low, dangerous chuckle, and Root’s hand begins moving in the limited space; Shaw opens her eyes to see Root watching her, pupils dangerously dilated and hungrily cataloguing the expressions on Shaw’s face.

“More,” Shaw gasps. Root extracts her hand; Shaw makes to complain, but hands are fiddling with Shaw’s zipper and pushing both jeans and pants to around her thighs. The fingers slip back inside Shaw, but this time the steady beat of them inside her is reinforced by Root’s hips, lending force as she grinds her palm right when Shaw needs it.

“Fuck,” Shaw breathes, and Root increases the pace of her hand, her own breath becoming ragged as Shaw threatens to combust beneath her. Root likes Shaw like this; begging, thrumming, and alive beneath her. She bites down on Shaw’s jaw lightly, listening, hypnotized, to the sound of quick breaths.

Electricity rips up Shaw’s spine; she freezes, her breath caught, and exhales. Root grins, a feral grin of success as Shaw’s eyes fluttered shut and her mouth falls open in wordless protest, her muscles relaxing into the pleasure Root’s fingers evoke. Root turns her head and sucks a kiss from Shaw’s throat, pleased as it leaves a mark. The mixture of pleasure and the quick light, soothed pain of a bite, coupled with Root’s skilled fingers pushes Shaw over the edge into a silent climax. She leans forward into Root’s body, her muscles failing her as she gasps. Root’s strong arm wraps around her hips and supports her, keeping her upright. Shaw’s eyes flutter open, and she watches as Root extracts her fingers from Shaw’s warmth and brings them up to her mouth to suck them clean. Shaw’s pupils dilate as she watches, breath catching.

“We have time,” Root assures Shaw. Shaw grins.

 

Something irrational pulls at Shaw; it’s like Root’s voice has a direct effect on her lungs. She can’t do this alone. Suddenly Shaw remembers Root’s fragile body underneath her, muscles in her back pushing against Shaw’s knee. She remembers Root’s pulse and Root’s smirk and Root’s voice.

“I’m going to help Root.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Samaritan has taken over the world, even the most highly trained operatives get in trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the first chapter was set BEFORE the season finale, but the following three will be set after. these also have a SLIGHTLY more linear structure.

Shaw’s identity is simple; she’s an EMT. She wonders idly if Root did this on purpose, or whether it was Root’s god. Either way, she finds that the job is boring. In the end, Shaw isn’t even fixing people here. She is their purgatory, keeping them alive, until a more trained professional can save them. She is annoyed and frustrated and restless.

Perhaps that’s why she starts listening to the police scanner.

Initially, she has no plans to react to the calls. The echo of Root’s voice rings in her ears; “keep your head down”. But it’s so hard to do when there’s a domestic abuse disturbance three houses away.

The police is unhappy when they arrive on the scene and the abuser is pinned to the wall with a nail gun and the boyfriend just claims (quietly, timidly) that a beautiful woman saved him. They don’t know what to do with it, but when the abuser wakes up he swears, independently, that “some crazy bitch” pinned him against the wall.

Samaritan notices, and notes it down.

Overnight, that file gets deleted.

Samaritan doesn’t notice. Somewhere, a machine and her analogue interface share a metaphorical grin.

 

One too many interferences and Shaw is tied to a chair. Her hands are duct taped behind her back, but her legs are free. She comes to in a head jerk; she has never been one for slow realisation. A man is towering above her, muscles flexing as he looks down at her. Shaw looks up through her hair, and then glances around the room.

She is in a warehouse somewhere; there is a tall man, and then four henchmen. They needed all four of them to capture her like this. Shaw tilts her head; drug dealer from the look of them. From the tattoos, Shaw guesses it’s one of the Czech gangs. She killed one of their main operatives last Tuesday.

Shaw wiggles her hand; although her wrists are tightly bound together, she can shift them, slightly. She doesn’t let her success show on her face. She also feels the reassuring push of her ceramic knife, strapped to her thigh. Sadly, she’s wearing her long black skinny jeans tonight, so it isn’t easy to access. She tilts her head and looks up at the man.

“Well, this is a pleasant way to meet,” she comments casually. The man slaps her. It’s a powerful slap; Shaw opens her mouth several times to make sure everything is intact before she spits on the ground in front of the man. He looks down at her, cruel smile pulling at his lips.

“I’m going to teach you some manners, bitch,” he growls. Shaw notes his voice is accented, but only slightly. “But not before you give me some answers.”

“You’re gonna have to ask me some questions before I can give you answers,” Shaw points out. She is ready to flinch, waiting for the next slap, but it doesn’t come.

“Why did you kill my operative?” He demands instead. Shaw shrugs.

“He was causing trouble.”

“On your turf? Is this your area?” he asks. Shaw rolls her eyes.

“No, of course not.”

“Are you a cop?” he asks again. Shaw gives him an incredulous glace before she shakes her head again.

“No.” The man sighs.

“What is your interested in the area then?” he demands, exasperated.

“I live here,” Shaw replies simply. He growls again, and says something in highly accented Czech to one of his friends. A second man steps forward.

“Are you working alone?” he demands.

“Yes.” He doesn’t believe her; he scoffs, and makes to punch her again. Shaw rolls her eyes. “Well,” she starts, “I do have _some_ help.” The man perks up. Shaw smiles up at him. “The police scanner that I stole about a month ago.” That affords her a punch to the face. The new man turns away too and barks something in perfect Czech to the two remaining men.

“Sergei and Vladmir are going to teach you a lesson, little lady,” he hisses, before he walks away, two men following him. Shaw looks up at the two approaching hulks of men and grins.

“I like this,” she tells them. They exchange a confused look.

“Like what?” The one of the left asks; Shaw barely has time to note that he has an American accent before she stands up and slams the chair down on the floor. It breaks underneath her. Before she can yank her hand out of the duct tape handcuffs, the silent thug comes at Shaw. She jumps up and slams a kick on his chest, forcing him to stagger back as she slips out of the duct tape. Hands finally free, Shaw uses the back of the broken chair as a weapon and slams it at American Accent Thug. Silent Thug has recovered, and tries to come at Shaw from the opposite direction. This would be a great time to have her knife, but the knife is trapped, securely, to Shaw’s thigh, and she doesn’t really have the thirteen seconds it takes to reach down her pants and extract that beauty. She sighs, and starts to play dirty.

Shaw waits until they are both close, before she ducks and _slides_ underneath Silent Thug and kicks him in the back, using him as a shield against American Accented Thug, who seems to have a knife of his own. American Accented Thug grits his teeth and lunges for Shaw over his partner. The knife grazes her arm, and blood splatters, but Shaw compartmentalizes the pain and parries and _attacks._ She slams a fist against a chin and then knees a man to the groin, throwing his body to the left so she can deal with Silent Thug, swiping out his legs from under him and slamming a palm against his clavicle.

The sickening snap of bone is complemented by three quick shots. Shaw spins around, hand down her pants, desperately trying to extract her knife.

“Do I really make you that happy to see me?” Root’s standing in the door way, head tilted, grinning. Shaw extracts her hand, knife in hand, and exhales air. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh to Root.

“I had this in hand,” Shaw says instead. Root grins. She knows that’s synonymous with “thanks” for Shaw.

“I know you did, I’m just here to patch that up.” She gestures at the cut on Shaw’s arm. It’s bleeding more than Shaw realised. There are stripes of blood, trailing down her arm. Root pulls out some cream and gauze out of her coat pocket. Shaw raises an eyebrow. Root shrugs.

“She said you might need help. She didn’t specify what kind, so I came prepared.”

“She still talks to you?” Root doesn’t answer that. She just steps over the two thugs and gestures at the pile of boxes closer to her.

“Sit down,” she instructs. Shaw does.

“I thought I was the one who played doctor,” Shaw mutters while Root tusks over the cut. Root shrugs.

“I had to seduce a surgeon once. I know a thing or two about medicine.”

“When you say seduce…”

“He died of natural causes within the week too, but that didn’t teach me much about medicine.”

“I don’t think I need stitches,” Shaw mutters as Root pokes at the cut.

“Yeah, it’s clean,” Root agrees, as she puts the cold antiseptic cream on it. Shaw hisses, but stays motionless. Root grins and puts the gauze on the cut carefully. “There,” she whispers.

Shaw wants to get up, distance herself, and leave. But Root is sitting right there, grinning, because she knows she helped Shaw, and even if Shaw won’t admit it, she did kind of need someone. Something in Shaw reacts; it’s almost as if something’s off. She sweeps the room, but her adversaries are still out cold, and their all alone. Her eyes flick back to Root.

“I think I should leave,” she mutters. “My shifts starts soon.”

“How are you going to explain that cut?”

“I’m not. My coat will cover it.” And with that, she leaves. She doesn’t glance back, even though as she stands in the door way of the warehouse she feels a deep sinking in her stomach, as if she forgot something.

 

The next weeks are frustrating. The end of autumn is becoming colder, and it is as if it’s too cold to commit violent crimes anymore. The police beat Shaw to most crimes scenes again, and the ones she appears at, she has to hover in the background because they are being committed indoors, in the light of intrusive cameras.

That’s the only reason Shaw is so jumpy. Well, it’s the only reason Shaw allows herself to think about anyway.

“You look glum,” Karen, the driver of the ambulance, says. “Well, more glum than usual,” she adds.

“I’m not glum,” Shaw snaps.

“Yeah, perhaps it’s not glum – it’s more of a general disapproval with the world.”

“I am not disapproving.”

“Well, you are doing _something_.” Shaw wants Karen to shut up. Karen is chatty and likes to tell Shaw about her three cats and her boyfriend; Shaw doesn’t care. But Karen talking keeps her from asking intrusive questions, so Shaw turns to Karen.

“How is Sniffles?” She asks instead, as if the health of Karen’s oldest cat in _any way_ concerns her. Immediately, Karen begins to recount a fun story of the cat sleeping on _top_ of Karen’s fiancé despite the fact she has told the cat _repeatedly_ that Mark is allergic and so Mark woke up _sneezing_ (isn’t that funny, Shaw) and then _Karen_ had to chase away the cats because Mark _was sneezing_ , and it was all such a laugh.

Shaw just sinks down in her seat, and prays that someone somewhere is dying.

 

A magazine arrives in the mail three weeks later. “Psychiatrists Weekly,” the cover boasts. It should have been sent to a Nora St John, who lives in Brooklyn. Shaw has no idea _how_ she got this magazine; she lives in Washington Heights. She slips the magazine into a mail box and doesn’t think much of it. People make mistakes.

But then two bills arrive for Nora St John again. The correct address (Apartment 3C, 1467 Union Street, Crown Heights, Brooklyn) is on both of them, clearly written where it should be. Shaw has had enough of it; she walks to the post office and, after waiting in line for nearly half an hour, slams the envelopes on the counter.

“This is the third time I have received mail for this woman,” Shaw snaps at an acne riddled American Postal employee. “Can you please tell whoever sorts the mail that this isn’t funny?” The boy looks confused and terrified.

“It’s all done with a machine,” he squeaks.

A machine; of course. Shaw glances up at a camera as she leaves the post office. Although she knows she is primarily staring at Samaritan, Shaw swears She is still around.

 

When it happens, everything feels meticulously planned. One of the EMT gal’s girlfriend is working on the 911 call center on her birthday, but she has a ten hour shift. So, shift over, Karen volunteers to drive the present over without giving Shaw a second to disembark. So there Shaw is, shoulder’s hunched uncomfortably, as she follows Karen to an operator in the chattering room.

The operator is chatty, and Karen asks questions.

“Yeah, I just had the weirdest call from a girl. The only thing she said, repeatedly, was to tell Sammy that Nora St John was in trouble.”

“Nora St John?”

“Yeah, that was it. There was nothing I could do with the information…”

Shaw turned on her heel and left.

“That was slick,” she mutters under her breath, though she suspects no one can hear her. She makes to take the subway home, but as she walks through the tunnels, the public phones start ringing. Shaw glances at the camera at the end of the tunnel; it’s off. She stops walking, but the empty tunnel continues to ring with footsteps. Shaw sighs and walks over to the phones.

If the Machine went through this much trouble to get Shaw’s attention, then she will at least answer the phone.

An electric voice begins rattling off a collection of numbers.

“40.6684877, -73.9424811

N40° 40.1093', W073° 56.5489”

When Reese had the machine, he liked it to be humanoid. He would talk to it, and expect answers in directions and names and indications. When Root talked to the machine, she did not want humanity. She wanted Morse code and binary. It figures, Shaw decides, typing the coordinates into her phone, that to direct Shaw to Root, the Machine adopts Root’s twang.

Because Shaw has no doubt that Root is Nora St John; her phone calibrates the numbers and turns them into an address for Shaw. Apartment 3C, 1467 Union Street, Crown Heights, Brooklyn.

Shaw gets on a different train.

 

Shaw does not even have a gun. She breathes out and tries the door; miraculously a buzzer goes off somewhere, and Shaw is let in. She looks up again and nods at the security camera, just slightly. She walks up to the third floor and sits outside of the apartment, listening carefully. There is nothing to here; the apartment is empty. So she picks the lock on Nora St John’s apartment. “Payback,” she whispers as the lock clicks open; now she has gotten into Root’s apartment too.

The signs of struggle are apparent; there is a broken glass on the floor and Root’s taser is on the floor, next to the puddle of water. “What happened here?” Shaw whispers, looking around. Somewhere, something beeps. Shaw grins. Of course, She wouldn’t leave her out to dry.

There is a tiny camera hidden in the handles of the cupboards; despite Her hints, it takes Shaw nearly an hour to find it. When she figures out just how all of Root’s basic technology works and she finally has access to an incredibly high quality image, Shaw sees four men attack Root.

She wants to ask the computer how Root did this, before. How was Root _Root_ without her God’s comforting whisper?

Her body slips back into this kind of work almost too easily. It’s like riding a bicycle, if bicycles required acute upper body strength and weapon skills. Once Shaw has faces, it becomes an easy task. She walks into three separate bars, baklava covering her face, shoots the security camera, and describes tattoos. She gets a boss; a boss has two body guards and a phone. Shaw breaks all of three and then introduces herself. “I think you have something I want,” she tells him, cracking her knuckles. He blinks, taken aback. His surprise turns to horror when Shaw holds a butcher’s knife with its tip on his chin.

“I could painfully slam this through your head until it makes contact with your brain and thus kill you, or you could tell me where you’re keeping my friend the doctor?”

“She’s not a Doctor,” the man squeaks; “she’s a liar and a thief.”

“That may well be, but she _is_ still my friend.”

“She kidnapped me…” the man hisses, enraged, through clenched teeth. Shaw sighs, bored.

“Yes, she did that to me too. Now, location?” She presses down a little harder with the knife. The tip sinks into flesh, and a red bead of blood drops out. The man gulps and the knife shifts further; he squeaks and shouts out a location.

“She’d better be alive,” she tells the man, before slamming his head against the table and leaving him there, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please rate the fight sequence for me AM I GETTING BETTER AT THEM i must know


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root rarely needs to be rescued (the Machine disagrees)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have been sitting on this fic for LITERALLY a week bc i was so unsure about some parts but i did my third and FINAL edit tonight and thus you guys get this (im sry)

CHAPTER 3

Root is alone in a dark room, counting pi. Unlike Harold, the infinity of pi has always frustrated her. _Why_ is life confined to the circumference of a circle, and if it contains all the answers, then _why_. When Root was nine, she tried to learn every digit of pi so that, one day, she would hold the answer to a question she didn’t even know yet. She got to 278 numbers, and then became bored. Other questions needed answers, and unlike the universe, the questions computers raised were contained in a finite system.

So she sits in a room, and lets her brain remember the digits. Perhaps they will ask her a question, and she will hold the answer in her brain, since the voice of Answers in her ear has been conspicuously silent recently.

Sadly, when the men _do_ ask her questions, they do want numbers as answers. But pi is not the right number; they want people and bank accounts and her to give up the Big Boss. “Who employed you?” they snarl.

“seven, one, four, eight, six, six, nine…” this is not what they want. A man with rings on his fingers slaps Root, but she ignores the pain blooming across her face.

The next morning, they try again. Root’s still counting, but then the man drops a name.

A name; there is so much power in a name. She stops counting, and tilts her head and looks up. “Oh, Mr. Merritt wants to know?” She grins. Mr. Merritt has no issue with the machine; the Big Boss he is searching for is physical and organic. Root’s hands are bound and sitting on her lap with zip wires, but her legs are free. Of course these men are not looking for Her.

They are looking for a crime boss who stole nearly a billion dollars from Merritt and Partners seven years ago.

They are looking for Root.

Root smiles, and goes back to counting.

They leave her. They clearly don’t know what to do. Mr. Merritt, Root decides, was far better at being a victim than a perpetrator.

Hours pass. Root continues counting.

“nine, four, one, five, one, one, six;” there is a clash outside the door. Two men run in, Root ignores them. “zero, nine…”

“Should we kill her?” Root doesn’t look up, but she stops counting. A man is holding a gun close to her. Three notes in her ear ascend; Root kicks the man on her right in the knee, hard. He buckles, and falls. An old war wound, Root guesses, but then the notes in her head descend, and she whips around to kick a gun out of the hand of the questioning security guard.

“Broken collarbone,” a voice whispers to Root, and she slams down on his collarbone with her bound hands. Or tries to; the man is bigger and faster than Root, and her hands are still tied and really, and omniscient technology can only get her so far. The Bigger Man slams her down on the ground, Root is winded. He holds her down with one arm as she struggles, but her hands are still bound and she _can’t do anything_.

Suddenly the other man gets up. Root is outnumbered and painfully alone, and she knows this is all her fault.

“Sorry,” a voice in her ear beeps, and Root is angry. There is no reason for Her to be sorry; these men want Root for Root, not for Analog Interface. She created this mess herself, and there is no reason for anyone or _anything_ to save her.

The man on top of Root starts to swing blows at her, and Root tries to make herself as small as physically possible and refuses to make a sound as the blows continue to rain.

Root is almost unconscious when Shaw shoulders her way into the tiny room and kneecaps the offenders. Root tries to smile, a slight wry grin, but she passes out before Shaw can even take in the scene.

 

Agent Shaw of the Central Intelligence Unit would have called this one in, and then walked away; an ambulance and others would have dealt with this. Ms. Shaw, who worked with Reese and Finch, would have brought this young woman, covered in bruises and bleeding, to a hospital on Finch’s command. But now, Shaw was alone, and she was no longer Shaw. She is Sam, and Sam does not have the emotional fortitude to walk away from Nora St John.

Shaw sighs and kneels down next to Root. She is breathing, but as Shaw touches her sides, she can feel _several_ broken ribs. Root’s shirt, but there is no cut. She carefully arranges Root in the recovery position and then calls Karen.

“I have a patient for you,” she snaps as Karen picks up.

“What?” Karen is out of breath and surprised.

“Get an ambulance and meet me in Brooklyn in 10 minutes.”

“Our shift doesn’t start for another five minutes Shaw!”

“There is a woman. She’s injured.”

“Oh! Okay! I’ll be there immediately.”

Shaw sighs and picks up Root. She’s tall, but light. She carefully carries her out the building, ignoring the men writhing in pain around her.

 

When Root wakes up, the first thing she notices is Shaw. “I knew you couldn’t resist saving me,” she whispers, grinning triumphantly. She’s in a hospital bed; there are several different IV drips in her arm, feeding her new blood and strength. Shaw has been curled up in the cheap plastic chair next to the hospital bed, neck cramping every time she tries to sleep.

“There is no need to be so cocky right now, Root,” she replies. “You _are_ lying in a hospital bed on the brink of death because I saved you before they could finish.”

“Oh, stop being dramatic,” Root corrects, sharing a smile with Shaw. Shaw falls back in her chair and sighs loudly. Root looks around; she’s not feeling dizzy anymore. She carefully touches her ribs. They are bound. Her lip has stopped bleeding, though her right eye is swollen shot. Her left arm is in a cast. She didn’t even realise she broke her arm. She tilts her head, and stretches her neck. She flexes her fingers, and then glances up at the security camera in her room.

It’s off right now.

Root wonders how much its straining Her to keep it that. She turns towards a slouched Shaw.

“Get me out of here.” Shaw raises and eyebrow.

“Seriously?” She asks, incredulous. She gestures at Root’s berobed state. Root shakes her head.

“Nora has a very nice apartment,” she states, as if this is an explanation.

“Who is Nora?” Shaw asks. Root rolls her eyes and hisses as she pulls the needle from her wrist. Next to hert, a machine begins to beep loudly. But it’s the wrong type of Machine, so Root ignores it.

“Me,” she breathes out before swinging her legs over the side of the bed and wavering slightly. “Where are my clothes?” She demands, swaying. Shaw unfurls from her chair with an exasperated sigh and brings Root her clothes. Root squints at Shaw. She takes a bog, steadying breath, and slowly gets dressed while Shaw respectfully stares out of the window. She makes to get up, but wavers dangerously. Shaw turns and lays both her hands on Root’s shoulder to steady her.

“Perhaps I lost more blood than I realised,” Root whispers. Shaw rolls her eyes and picks up Root almost effortlessly.

“Probably,” she agrees, depositing Root into a wheelchair. “Please tell me you still remember your address though.”

“Of course,” Root whispers, her eyes fluttering closed. Shaw sighs and twists through the back exit of the hospital. Root was clocked as a Jane Doe; Shaw pocketed all her identities herself. This way, they will fall off the hospital’s radar as fast as possible. Shaw gets to the back entrance and flags them down a taxi. Root is awake, but Shaw lifts her from the chair anyway. Root grins, and happily tells the taxi driver her new address.

Root is exhausted by the time they arrive though; she lives in an old enough building that there are no lifts, so she walks all three floors. Shaw follows her at a concerned distance so she can catch her if she falls. Root doesn’t fall, but by the time they arrive in her apartment, she doesn’t even make it to the bed, choosing instead to collapse on the sizable sofa. Shaw tries to move her, but she whines, resisting, and so Shaw leaves her be. When Shaw tries to _leave_ though, Root makes a quiet sound of protest.

“I could still die, you now,” she murmurs into the beige material of the couch. Shaw raises an eyebrow.

“You have a concussion, Root.”

“And broken ribs. And this!” She holds up her arm with the cast.

“And?” Shaw asks, exasperated.

“They mean,” Root mumbles, “that I should be supervised.” It is four AM on a Friday morning and Shaw has not slept in too long. She sighs.

“Fine,” she mutters.

 

Root wakes up at 8am. She has a pounding headache, and rubs her eyes. She takes a couple of painkillers, and then Nora St John calls her assistant Phillip to ask him to delay all her appointments.

“Are you okay, Doctor St John?” He asks, voice on edge. Root rubs her neck; it’s oddly stiff.

“Just have a temperature,” she lies pleasantly.

“Those are the worst,” he agrees, and then he begins listing some easy cures. Nora listens while Root is doing other things. She finishes the conversation. Over night, the printer seems to have randomly printed a phone number. Root calls, and gets a deli. She tilts her head, and asks the guy to bring their specialities. “We’re famous for our chicken soup!” the young man on the phone explains. Root smirks, and orders food.

She goes to her bedroom. Shaw is asleep, face down, on top of the duvet. Root lies down next to her, facing her, though she has burrowed under her blanket. Shaw eyes flickers open.

“What are you doing,” she demands softly; she doesn’t want to irritate Root’s fragile head. Root smiles.

“Sleeping,” she murmurs, and then goes back to sleep. It’s oddly intimate, though they are not even touching. Even when she sleeps, Root has a tiny frown on her face, almost cautious. Shaw sighs, exasperated, but also goes back asleep again. It’s too early to be worrying about anything much anyway.

 

When Shaw wakes up the second time, Root is sitting in the middle of the bed, fiddling with her cast. Shaw sits up and swats away her hand. Root smiles and tilts her head. Her hair is all mused up, and her eye is still swollen shut. “Thanks for saving me, Sameen,” she murmurs.

“I don’t think the Machine would have ever let me sleep if anything happened to you,” Shaw replies wryly, getting up.

“She can be persistent,” Root agrees, watching Shaw leave the room. Shaw is in the kitchen, rooting through Root’s cupboards searching for food when the doorbell rings.

“Are you expecting someone?” Shaw asks. Root grins and slips out of the bed.

“I ordered chicken soup for us.” Shaw watches her go with a glare.

“You know, I can actually cook,” she calls after her. Root gives her _that_ exasperated look.

“That may be,” she says, “but this is your favorite deli,” and then she opens the door.

“How do you – ” Shaw stops herself. Of course, Root _would_ know. Shaw walks around the counter to join Root at the door where an awkward young man handing Root a large box of food, trying desperately not to stare at her swollen eye and bruised face. Root isn’t fazed; she smiles at him, charmingly. He looks past her and sees Shaw, and waves awkwardly.

“Hey Sam,” he mutters, blushing a deep red.

“I didn’t know you did deliveries, Mark,” Shaw says, crossing her arms belligerently.

“We don’t,” he squeaks, confirming Shaw’s suspicion. He adds, “Doctor St John is an exception.”

“An important exception,” Root agrees, handing him a wad of bills and taking the flat cardboard container full of food off him with her one uninjured arm.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” He asks, awkwardly, gesturing towards Root’s eye and arm. Root smiles at him, and waves him off with her cast. “But I can take that for you,” he adds, as she winces slightly. Shaw has already stepped forward and taken the food off Root though.

“No, it _fine_ ,” Root says, waving him off. “Being a psychiatrist is just a more dangerous job than you would expect,” she tells him with a gleeful smirk. He gulps and nods.

“I suppose,” he agrees.

“See you then!” She chirps, and closes the door.

“You look like you ordered enough food for a whole army,” Shaw notes wryly, putting the box down on the counter with a heavy thud. Root follows her, grinning.

“I kind of did,” she agrees. Shaw tilts her head.

“Why?” She asks. Root shrugs.

“I don’t think I’ll be leaving the house much with this noticeable injury.”

“You’ll be able to cover it with makeup by Monday,” Shaw points out. Root nods, thoughtfully.

“I suppose I will have to,” she agrees.

“You’re not going to work today?” Shaw asks, surprised. Root makes a face. Shaw had forgot; Root is not used to injuries in the same way Shaw is used to injuries. Shaw has catalogued and ordered ever pain that her body could produce with the neat alienation of someone who has been bruised and battered too often to be considered normal. Root, on the other hand, is fragile; Shaw surveys her, but this time with the critical eye of a potential doctor. Her dressing needs to be changed soon, and someone needs to monitor her concussion. For a second, Shaw wonders why she listened to Root's request to leave the hospital; right now, she should not be alone. So Shaw sighs, and pulls out her phone.

"You have a phone?" Root demands, face lighting up. Shaw emphasises the flipping motion needed to open her phone; the phone is old, and definitely nothing to be excited about. Still, Shaw finds herself smirking; she likes surprising Root. It’s not often one can surprise the analogue interface of an omniscient machine.

"No," Shaw clarifies: "Sam Saunders has a phone. She needs to be available in case of an emergency at work and she did not want to invest in a landline."

"Sam Saunders, EMT, right?" Root clarifies.

"Boring Sam Saunders," Shaw agrees. Root smirks.

"You should see what She gave Reese as a job."

"Your machine gave us the fake identities?"

"She gave me randomized jobs. For some of the people I refreshed until she gave me something I liked, but for others there was no time." Shaw decides to ignore the implications of that and turns to Root with vicious excitement.

"So what's Reese up to?" She demands.

"Cooking."

"What?"

"He's a fry cook." Shaw grins.

"Are you serious?"

"We should go visit him at work sometime," Root grins. Shaw nods avidly, and then bites her lip. Shaw looks back down at her phone, and remembers why she pulled it out. She starts navigating to her contacts while Root slithers around the counter to stand eerily close.

"Can I have Sam Saunders number?" She asks, breathing into Shaw's ear.

"No," Shaw replies resolutely, texting Karen. She gets an immediate reply of "lol sure THANG anything 4 u bbff emt BUDDY have fun w ur gf!!!!!!!!!!" which Root finds incredibly amusing over Shaw's shoulder. Shaw flips the phone shut again and closes it.

"What did you text her?" Root asks, having only seen the reply.

"I have the day off," Shaw explains curtly. Root sits up on the counter and tilts her head.

"Did you just ask your friend for a favour?" She asks, grinning. Shaw rolls her eyes and reaches for the closest paper bag.

"She is not a friend and this is not a favour," she explains simply and opens the bag. Inside, there is a clear contained of soup. She pulls it out and starts looking through Root's kitchen to find bowls. Root is no help at all: for someone who has lived in this apartment for nearly three months she has no idea where any of the cutlery or utensils is.

"The apartment came furnished," she replies shrugging, when Shaw demands to know how she survived.

Soup is arranged in bowls and Shaw offers Root her bowl. Root looks around; there are no stools, to sit on. “Hold on,” Root instructs, trying to push herself up to sit on the counter with one arm. She pales, though does not let out a sound of pain, as she hoists herself up, clearly straining her broken rib. Shaw puts down the bowls.

“Here, let me inspect that,” she mutters, stepping forward. She places a careful hand on Root’s ribcage; it’s warm and probing in a gentle, knowledgeable way.

There is something tender in her eyes; Root wants to stop it, to harden it with a well worded innuendo. She does not like this pure unbridled affection; it crawls on her like uncomfortable heat. Shaw pushes on Root’s ribs and Root winces. Shaw is cataloguing Root’s wounds with the reverence of a pilgrim. Root wants to stop her, force against a counter and show her that no one is allowed to look at Root like that. Right now, Root is fallible bone and flawed skin. She does not _deserve_ this reverence. But then she shivers, and her goosebumps rise underneath Shaw’s hand. Shaw glances up at her, seeking permission. Root gulps. Shaw smiles, and leans down and gently, ever so gently, kisses Root’s stomach. It’s barely a breath against warm skin, a victorious grin, but Root’s skin beings to crawl again. Shaw pushes up Root’s shirt and kisses her again, more deliberately. Root tries to suffuse her body with reason, but there is too much tenderness in Shaw. Root’s body succumbs, and she pushes her hips up, begging for more physical contact. But Shaw works her way up methodologically, slowly unbuttoning one button at a time, savouring Root’s body. Root’s hand threads itself through Shaw’s hair and pulls her up, almost harshly, to kiss. Her cast rests on Shaw’s shoulder, heavily, but Shaw doesn’t mind.

Shaw’s kisses are languid, but burning, singeing the roof of Root’s mouth as she pulls Shaw closer. Shaw’s hip is pressed against Root’s; Root clasps her legs around Shaw’s back and pulls her closer, demanding friction. Her groin collides with Shaw’s thigh, and she arches up. Her breathless, silent demands are unregistered by Shaw’s careful ministrations. Shaw’s hand trails down from Root’s neck to her breasts right when Shaw bites down on Root’s lip. The pain, soothed by the gentle sucking mere seconds afterwards, distracts Root as she shudders into the affections. Shaw begins palming Root’s left breast; it’s on the border of painful, and sends electrical shivers down her spines. She shudders, hugging Shaw closer in an attempt to conduct any of her sparks.

Shaw breaks away from Root’s mouth and leans down to gently bite down on Root’s breast. She bites, and then sucks, and Root pushes her pelvis into Shaw’s hips impatiently. Shaw’s hand trails down Root’s body and slips into Root’s pants. Root is wet and frantic; her panting is demanding and commanding and she whines, loudly, for more. Shaw grins and carefully slips inside of Root. Root is burning, like a volcano, on the edge of eruption. Shaw bites down on Root’s shoulder in order to silence her own sounds of approval; she begins a slow rhythm inside of Root, beginning almost tenderly. Root gasps, quiet and desperate. Shaw’s hips reinforce her hand, administering _just_ the right pressure on Root’s clit with Shaw’s palm. Root groans, and pushes her own hips into the action, ruining Shaw’s rhythm but fulfilling her own wish of more friction.

Root comes quietly, clutching Shaw’s shoulder’s almost angrily, nailing digging into flesh as she shudders, breathless as her spine straightens and then relaxes because of the bursts of electricity. Shaw grins, extracting her fingers and sucking them slowly. Root turns her head from Shaw’s shoulder, staring at her.

“Thank you for saving me,” she whispers. Shaw turns to her; her lips still taste like Root, but still she leans forward and kisses her. Root kisses her back.

“Want some lunch now?”  
“Okay.” Post-orgasm Root is compliant. Shaw decides she should remember this fact. For the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this WHOLE FIC came into existance bc i was like "when would shaw EVER top root" and this was the ONLY SCENARIO THAT WORKED IN MY HEAD AT THE TIME so yes i gave you 8k of background story and 500 words of smut (that i am only 60% happy with!!!!!!), but hey THAT'S LIFE

**Author's Note:**

> Muzzle to muzzle and toe to toe  
> The fear has gripped me but here I go  
> My heart sinks as I jump up  
> Your hand grips hand as my eyes shut


End file.
